


one day i'm going to grow wings

by thinkatory



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Captivity, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Dysfunctional Relationships, Forced Marriage, Gaslighting, M/M, Objectification, POV Martin Blackwood, POV Peter Lukas, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, about as close to love as Peter Lukas gets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24747388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: There's something reassuring about Peter Lukas, in the way that he's not reassuring at all. Martin appreciates how Peter observes briefly, comments rarely, and takes his time in finally approaching him in any sort of non-meaningful manner. The cheerful detachment in Peter's face, voice, everything is exactly what Martin wants right now, in the wake of his mother's death and losing Jon. It's what he deserves: the barest amount of respect with a dose of the risk of being eaten alive by an entity.In early season 4, Peter takes another tack with Martin.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	one day i'm going to grow wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anysin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anysin/gifts).



> Title from Radiohead's "Let Down."
> 
> I should note that despite the presence of Peter's family at a certain point in this story, I don't go into much detail, largely because it's Peter's POV at that point and he just does not give a fuck. Would've been happy to go into detail, but I could just not muster any enthusiasm to do so from Peter.

There's something reassuring about Peter Lukas, in the way that he's not reassuring at all. Martin appreciates how Peter observes briefly, comments rarely, and takes his time in finally approaching him in any sort of non-meaningful manner. The cheerful detachment in Peter's face, voice, everything is exactly what Martin wants right now, in the wake of his mother's death and losing Jon. It's what he deserves: the barest amount of respect with a dose of the risk of being eaten alive by an entity.

Martin is starting to die. It's not as though his biological functions are going to stop at any point soon, but that's never been the part that really mattered. He can keep his body alive. It's the rest that's been a struggle to bolster, and now he just doesn't have the energy. He knows what happens if he allows himself to feel anything, so he cuts it down and down and down until all that's left is shreds.

Lunch is about the only time that he registers much of anything anymore. He's pushing the food around his plate absentmindedly as Peter appears from nowhere behind him, and he glances up, finally vaguely interested.

"Martin," Peter says, tone warm as a predator's mouth, "how do you feel about a little trip after work?"

"A trip where?" It's not as though Martin has anything to do after work, but some cursory effort to look as though he cares will at least indicate to Peter that he isn't quite as weak as he appears. Even though he is.

Peter looks contemplative. "Somewhere _nice_ ," he says. "Don't you think you deserve something nice?"

"No." Shit. His mouth sets.

Peter's smiling at that. "Well, I have plans for you," he says, "if you don't have something better to do."

What's the point in denying the truth? Peter probably already knows. "Where should I meet you?"

"I'll find you," Peter says, that vague smile just on this side of pleased, and disappears again.

Martin feels some small sense of relief, even as he thinks it's a bit silly to poof in and out around the Archive like that.

Of course, Peter Lukas doesn't care what anyone else thinks. That might be why Martin is starting to like him.

* * *

One minute past the end of Martin's shift, Peter appears a few feet away from him. Martin gets up from his chair, and Peter leads the way through the Archive to the outside of the nondescript building that houses the Institute, where a not-surprisingly-nice car waits for them. Martin enters first without a word, and Peter slips in after him.

There's a casual silence, then Martin says, "So, are you going to kill me?"

Peter laughs, genuinely sounding just a bit amused. "No," he says. "No, absolutely not."

"Oh." Martin isn't as disappointed as he might have expected to be at that, and is a bit more surprised than anything. "Then what is this?"

"Consider it a promotion," Peter decides. "I did a bit of maths and I think I know a better way to put you to use. Of course, you can always say no."

"Can I?" Martin returns, a shade sardonic. "You're Peter Lukas."

"Oh, I do like that," Peter says, "but no, I don't mean to force your hand in the least. I think you'll find that you're much better suited to all of this than you ever were to puttering around an Archive full of books."

It sinks in. "So I'm not going back to the Archive."

"I haven't sorted that out yet," Peter says, flippant, "but we're going to try something new. Isn't that what you've wanted, something new?"

He can't deny that. He stays perfectly still, absorbing the moment, trying to decide how he feels, and a faint film of fear overlays a sort of dead feeling and a pang of concern that he won't ever see the others again. He can deal with that. He can force that down. "Fine."

Peter looks about as pleased as he ever does, and glances out the window, content to stay quiet and let the silence stretch between them. It's a bit of a drive, but eventually the car drives through a gate and they're in front of a rather nice house. Concern jabs at Martin again, but he moves out of the car after Peter, who leads him inside.

It's just as nice inside. It's nicer than anything Martin's properly seen outside of films. He manages not to boggle too much, which is helped by the brisk speed at which Peter moves through the sharply decorated but exceedingly empty home to lead Martin inevitably down a corridor. Peter gestures for Martin to go ahead of him, and he raises his eyebrows at Peter, admittedly a bit confused, before going ahead. Peter follows a few steps behind, until Martin stops at the only open door.

"There we are," Peter says softly. "Go on."

Martin takes one step, two, three, until he's finally inside of the room. Peter observes him, finally speaking when Martin turns back to him. "You'll be taken care of," he says. "Rest. Enjoy yourself."

"Peter," Martin says, more pointed than he maybe should, "what's going on here?"

"Oh, Martin," Peter says, almost fond and despairing at once, "haven't you sorted that out yet?" He's got the doorknob in hand before Martin can move forward. "I'll see you," he says, dismissively cheery, and shuts the door after Martin.

A key turns in the lock, and Martin can barely hear Peter's footsteps moving away in the luxurious carpeting. He stares at the door, and stupidly moves to it, turning the knob, to no avail.

"Jesus," Martin says aloud to no one, soft, and turns to face the room Peter seems to have chosen for him. It's nicer accommodations than anything he's ever had before, as sharply decorated as the rest of the place, striking with accents of black and white and gold, but there's only a desk, a mirror, a wardrobe, and a window out to a rolling lawn and gate he's not going to make it out to without Peter's permission.

His mouth forms a firm line.

"Fine," he says, quiet and determined, and takes a seat at the desk, releasing a short breath.

* * *

An alarm goes off on Peter's phone. It's time to check on Martin. How the week flies by. He leaves the Institute and arrives home, in a fine enough mood as he makes his way down the corridor to knock on the door.

"What," Martin's muted voice comes through the door.

"It's me," Peter says, unable to keep from sounding just a little amused. "May I come in?"

There's no answer, so that's as good as agreement. He unlocks the door and moves inside to find Martin sitting at the desk, elbows propped up and chin in his hands. "And how are we faring?" Peter asks, mild but cheerful.

"The bed is comfortable." Martin barely looks up at him.

"Oh, very good." Peter clasps his hands together. "You've done so well so far, you know."

"And what have I _done_?" Martin retorts, without much bite to it.

"Adapted," Peter says promptly. "You're far more suited to my pursuits than you ever were to the Institute."

Some terribly lonely feeling is clawing its way through Martin's chest; Peter can feel it as Martin snipes out a reply. "Because I can sit in a room alone for a week?"

"Because you know that the only escape is surrender." Peter shrugs. "What good does fighting do?"

Martin is silent for a moment, then says, "I want to know what's going on."

"What's going on," Peter says, "is that I'm testing you."

Martin stares at him now. "For what?"

Peter smiles, just enough to register. "Don't consider yourself a victim," he advises. "Consider yourself... an associate." Martin looks astoundingly weary as he opens his mouth, and Peter gestures to cut him off. "You don't have to pretend that you care, Martin. Not with me. I know the truth."

There's silence between them for a moment – oh, blessed silence – then Martin speaks, voice steadier, gaze carefully on Peter. "You're using me."

"Isn't everyone using everyone for something?" Peter says easily. "Consider yourself lucky to have been chosen, don't you think? Imagine returning to your old life after this. The pitiful home, the pitying looks, the self-pity as you made your way through the stacks. No, no, no. You're meant for more than that."

"By surrendering," Martin supposes, a shade sarcastic. "To whatever it is you want."

Peter doesn't bother answering that. It seems an obvious thing. "What do _you_ want, Martin?" he asks.

Martin starts to speak, then his throat stops, and his gaze flicks away. "Nothing I can have."

"Ah, we can change that," Peter says, wryly upbeat, and smiles at Martin's vaguely resentful look. "Everything has changed," he clarifies for Martin. "You're a butterfly dreaming of a time before the chrysalis. Why would you want to inch your way through life when you can fly?"

"So poetic." Martin is searching his face, though, even through the sarcasm.

"So sorry," Peter says, genuinely amused now. "Well, go on. Tell me what you want. Truly. In this moment."

A resistant expression crosses Martin's face for an instant before realization stops whatever pale attempt at fighting back he was about to voice. Instead, he says, "I want to forget."

Peter can't help but feel terribly satisfied. "All in good time." He turns away. "I hope the food's to your satisfaction."

"You know it is," Martin says from behind him.

Peter stifles his amusement as he locks the door.

* * *

It's the middle of the night, though Martin couldn't say exactly when, because there's no clock in his room. In the first two weeks, he'd spent a lot of time sleeping to while away the hours, but it backfired both by throwing off his sleep schedule and making the bed too much of a refuge. The more he sleeps, the more time he spends in bed, the more he sleeps. A terrible vicious cycle.

So he's awake at the desk, head propped up in his chin as he stares out of the window, when there's a knock at the door. He opens it to find Peter there; before Martin can come out with some comment about the time, Peter speaks. "Move aside."

Martin shifts back automatically, and Peter moves into the room, his hands drifting idly into his pockets. "What's going on?" Martin asks, to the point.

Peter considers him. "Stay still," he suggests, and Martin remains stock-still as Peter moves towards him, even as Peter draws close and lets his fingers slip into the hair at the nape of Martin's neck. Martin doesn't know if he's more terrified or aroused at the contact, at Peter's breath so close against his cheek, but Peter speaks, and arousal wins out. "We're going to play a game," Peter says, tone only slightly softer than usual. "I do what I want, and you keep quiet. I know you can do it."

Martin pulls in a shaky breath. "Peter," he whispers, but Peter's fingers grip into his hair and yank his head back so he has to look up into Peter's face. His protests die on his tongue at the look on Peter's face: someone looking at something they won't give up easily. He's Peter Lukas's property.

It would be a lie to say he hadn't thought about it, anyway, that he hadn't masturbated to the idea of Peter while he wasted time in this room. He's always had the worst taste in men, but he's usually had the self-preservation not to fuck the ones with that look on their face. Good that he has no self-preservation left, he supposes.

Peter doesn't kiss him. He just moves Martin against the bed and starts to undress him, dismissively tossing aside his shirt and undershirt into a pile to the side. Peter's touch against his bare skin catches the breath in Martin's throat and he strains to remain calm, cool, collected, steady. This is a bad idea, but he arches his half-hard cock into Peter's hips anyway.

Peter doesn't seem to be interested in much more than getting Martin naked now. He helps Martin get his trousers off and then, only then, does he look Martin in the face as though he's really there. "Get comfortable."

Shit. _Shit._ The scales are equaling out now between terror and desire, and he shifts back onto the unmade bed. Peter casually takes off his jacket and undoes his tie, placing the two neatly on the desk chair, then takes off his own trousers and moves on top of Martin. Martin knows he's supposed to stay quiet, but there's nothing to say anyway, besides _oh god oh god please, please._

At least part of this is the isolation, he knows that. He knows that he hasn't experienced human touch in maybe months, and suddenly Peter's hands are on his bared skin, pulling Martin's arse back against Peter's hips and cock. _God._ He shuts his eyes tightly.

It's a surprise Peter doesn't pull out solid gold lube, really; he just spits and presses inside of Martin, and a breath escapes Martin's mouth desperately as Peter starts to fuck him.

Martin doesn't even know for sure the last time he's had sex, and it figures it takes some mindgame by someone he knows is an avatar for an evil entity to finally get someone else's hard cock in his general vicinity. He strains not to make any sound, but Peter's cock is bigger than he's used to, and Peter seems vaguely frustrated that it's taking an effort to get all the way inside of Martin's arse. Unfortunately Peter's response to that is to fuck Martin harder and Martin twists against the contact, biting the inside of his cheek as it _hurts_ and finally he can't take it.

"Peter," he bursts out with. "Peter, stop."

Peter looks down at him with vague but fond disdain, and presses his hand tight against Martin's mouth as he keeps going. "Martin," Peter says, casual, not soft, the breathlessness of the act the only indication they're not having a normal conversation, "we had an agreement. Now if you're not satisfied, take care of yourself."

Martin has the horrible desire to bite down on Peter's fingers, but fear seeps through him at the idea of what might happen if he does, and he grips his fingers tightly into the duvet as Peter buries his cock hard into Martin. He shudders; his cock aches; he doesn't know what to do.

_Do you deserve better than this, Martin?_

He doesn't know. Maybe this is what he deserves. Maybe this is what he wants.

"Good," Peter decides, and moves his hand to tip Martin's face up to face his own. Once he's caught Martin's gaze, he says, wryly fond, "You'll get used to it. Won't you?"

How does he speak that way, so warm but so cold all at once? Martin tries to seek some reassurance in _you heard that, he **likes** me, he wants me, why would he do this if he didn't?_ but it's not as comforting as it might be, being that Peter looks so close to coming and he's fucking Martin so hard that Martin's teeth are gritting despite himself. Then Peter exhales shakily and comes, jerky, looking more of a wreck than Martin ever could have imagined him being.

Peter pulls back, releasing Martin, and Martin sits up; he can't help but stammer something, anything, out. "Peter," he starts.

"Are you going to have a wank or what?" Peter asks, mildly amused, as he pulls his clothes back on. "Honestly, it really has been a while for you, hasn't it?"

Jesus. He's still a bit hard. How can you be hard after something like that? Martin swallows. "Why?" he asks, otherwise lost for words.

"Oh, Martin," Peter says, despairing but with a laugh. "You shouldn't have to ask."

Horrifyingly enough, Martin's eyes are starting to ache with the start of tears. "Peter." He can't help it. "Don't go."

Peter considers him with a fond but otherwise alien expression, then disappears through the door and locks it behind himself.

The bed isn't a refuge. Martin doesn't care. He yanks the covers over himself and buries his face in the pillow. It would be untrue to say he cries. He shudders, he shuts his eyes as tightly as he can, but he does not cry. He bites it back.

It's fine.

* * *

Peter waits a few days after the rendezvous to visit Martin again. Within a few moments of his entering the room, Martin jumps on the opportunity. "Stop," Martin says instantly, "stop, we need to talk. We need to – "

"Oh, what," Peter cuts him off with, a touch weary but at least tolerating it for now.

Martin seems to lose what script he'd prepared, from the look on his face. "You know what happened," he says finally.

Peter raises his eyebrows. "You mean when we had sex," he clarifies.

"Peter." Martin looks like he's panicking, now. Peter observes him, and waits for the word he knows is on Martin's tongue. "You... Peter, you didn't stop." Martin shakes his head sharply. "I said…" He just stares past Peter now, unable to keep his eye contact.

There's the briefest pause, and Peter softens; Martin backs up only a step as Peter approaches him, but he knows better than to do more than that. Peter comes close to him again, and his mouth presses against Martin's forehead in a brief, warm kiss.

"Peter." Now Martin is all but begging.

"Is it so hard to believe that I wanted you?" Peter says, soft.

Martin is still as discovered prey. "That's not what I'm," he whispers, but can't get the rest out.

"I know what you think of yourself. That you're nothing." Peter can feel Martin straining to maintain silence and composure. "It's true. We're all nothing. But it's possible to embrace that feeling, that truth, and be free." He touches the small of Martin's back, gentle. "Don't you want to be free?"

"Yes," Martin murmurs without hesitation.

Peter seizes Martin by the chin and lifts his face to meet Peter's firmly. "It's time," he says. "But first, one _small_ thing."

"What," Martin asks, breathless.

Peter presses his other hand firmly into Martin's shoulder, his grip in Martin's hair pressing him down, until Martin is on his knees. Martin stares up at him in plain mixed terror and desire. He knows. Peter undoes his belt and yanks down his trousers just enough for Martin to have access to his cock.

Martin looks completely overwhelmed. Peter smiles, and moves Martin's head directly against his cock, until he finally wraps his mouth around it and starts to move his mouth and tongue against the shaft and head.

Peter lets his eyes drift shut; he does his best to think of nothing but the sensation, and fucks back into Martin's mouth until he's audibly gagging. For a brief moment, he almost feels badly – one can't break their favorite toys out of excitement – but it fades as Martin bounces back and sucks him off with plain desperation.

Peter wants this. Want is an alien sort of feeling for him. It's likely a dangerous start. He refocuses himself and releases a groan. He seizes his fingers into Martin's hair again and rams his cock firmly into his mouth a few more times before he comes. Martin coughs as Peter pulls back and gets his clothes back in order, and Peter ignores the swipe of a sleeve across his mouth and his struggle to get back to his feet.

"Get dressed," Peter says, to the point. "One of the suits I've provided you."

"Why?" Martin asks, and looks as though he regrets it.

"We're taking a trip," Peter says, as patiently as he can manage. "Now get dressed."

Martin restrains any sort of stammering answer and carefully changes into the suit in front of Peter; his expression is clearly questioning as he finishes, looking at Peter for some kind of reassurance. "Close enough," Peter supposes, and yanks them through reality to the outside of the home on the estate.

"What," Martin breathes, and shifts away from Peter. "Where are we?"

"We're going through a formality," Peter says, uncharacteristically brisk. "This way." He walks ahead, towards the looming doorway. Martin is only one step behind after the briefest pause.

Peter's family is there. They're present, at least, his mother, his cousins, all dressed well to especially complement the Lukas shade of light eyes. No one engages in conversation, and he barely acknowledges them or considers them very much. It's better that way; this is purely ceremonial. Martin is still baffled, overwhelmed, as Peter gently steers him to the most relevant spot across from him.

"Peter," Martin hisses. "Who are these people? What are we doing?"

"This is who you've chosen?" Peter's mother asks, a pure formality.

Peter nods shortly. "Martin Blackwood. Formerly of the Eye."

"Formerly?"

"Formerly." Peter pauses. "Is now the time?"

Peter's mother shakes her head, impatient. "Begin."

Conrad moves forward, just ahead and between Peter and Martin, and speaks. "We're here today to join Peter Lukas to Martin Blackwood, in the sight of the one who safely holds us in its grasp for all eternity."

"Peter," Martin whispers desperately. "Peter, I – "

Peter shoots him a sharp look, then a slightly apologetic one and a shrug. Martin backs off and lets Conrad talk on in platitudes and vague references, until he concludes: "May you find the truth together and apart in true independence." Then Peter takes Martin's hands to draw him closer, and bring Martin's face to his in a brief but firm kiss.

Martin stares up at him, a mess of feelings in his eyes, and Peter faintly smiles before taking Martin away from the Lukas home and back to the room that has become his own.

"Peter." Martin's begging now. Desperate. The kiss has broken him. Peter knows this.

Peter glances over to him. "What do you want?" he asks Martin. "Really. What do you want, right now?"

Martin stares at him. "Don't you know?" he returns finally.

"I suppose," Peter figures. "But do you really?" He observes Martin as he goes quiet. "Don't you want to be alone?"

Martin breaks eye contact, and takes a sharp breath before he moves to his desk to sit and stare out of the window.

Peter smiles, genuinely pleased, and locks the door behind him.

* * *

It occurs to Martin in the middle of the night that he never signed a document certifying a marriage to Peter. The next day it's brought to him by two witnesses who won't speak to him, and he just as silently signs the paper.

Loneliness is carving out a spot in his stomach. The lights in the distance across the hill and far from the gate are a reminder of a life when he would see people who wouldn't ignore him or rape him, and the longer he stares at the lights the easier it is to focus on the distance. That life, those people he knew, they could be acres or meters or inches away, but he would still be alone.

People don't mean company. He's learned that well enough by now.

No one particularly liked him anyway. Martin muses silently as he rests in bed on what he'd previously thought of as a better life. Cup after cup of tea, books and stapled papers and folders and filing cabinets, and people who tolerated him at best.

Jon.

Somehow thinking of Jon makes it worse. He tenses and grips the pillow.

"Growing pains," Peter says from a few feet away, and Martin flinches. "Sorry," Peter adds, not sounding incredibly apologetic.

Martin sits up, embarrassed. "What are you talking about?" he demands.

Peter pulls up the desk chair and sits across from Martin. "Well," he says, "people have this awful tendency to define themselves by their relationships with the people around them. It takes an effort to stop thinking of the people who have become key parts of the way you recognize yourself. Doesn't it? This is just what I've observed, this has never been a problem of mine, of course."

Martin absorbs that. "If you don't define yourself by any relationships, why did you marry me?" he asks directly.

Peter's smile is a bit crooked. "Complicated."

"Is it?" Martin presses. "You don't marry someone who you could just, just have whenever you want." He pauses, steeling himself for it. "You don't marry a pet."

"People marry strays all the time," Peter says, dismissively cheerful, "but I suppose you have something of a point." He contemplates Martin. "I saw potential in you," he says at last. "I saw a Lukas in you. In your eyes, in your heart."

Martin stares at him. "That's why you took me," he says, exhaling.

"And that's why you came," Peter says, holding his gaze. "You wanted reassurance that you could let go." He breathes out just as slowly. "Martin, I'm here to tell you that you can let go."

"What does that mean," Martin retorts, overwhelmed all over again.

"Fly," Peter returns, then reality bends again and Martin panics. All he recognizes is the faint sound of waves and a warm breeze, and he twists, desperate to find someone, anyone, anything, but there's nothing.

"Peter," Martin shouts, but there's nothing. There's no one. There's nothing at all but the clawing sensation he's known for as long as he's been alive, that no one sees him, that no one will recognize him or anything he does. He sinks down slowly.

 _Fly._ Martin can't see anything, but he closes his eyes tightly anyway, and he tries to think past the rising fear. He can't panic right now, this is a _situation_ , he's been through worse than this.

Has he? This is pretty bad.

"Shit," he manages, shaky, and tries to reach out, feel something, get anything but the soft rush of waves and the light brush of the breeze against his face. The void gives him nothing else.

Only a few seconds of horror later, he remembers.

_Let go._

Martin pulls in a breath, then another, then another. The fear seems to flow through him the more he breathes, and it takes everything within him not to panic and shove it away to no avail. The fear is here. It has always been here, inside of him. He's just pushed it to the side in desperate and failed attempts to connect with anything, anyone.

It's time to let go.

One last shaky breath, then his tightly-closed eyes relax, and he just sits.

As time passes, Martin realizes: the waves are reliable. They're there, present, communing patiently with the terror that sits in his chest. The breeze touches him more than anyone has before he became Peter's. There is no connection here. There is every connection here.

He breathes.

* * *

Peter pulls Martin from the Lonely about two days later. Martin is silent as he crams his hands in his pockets, the sensation of being physically present obviously alien again, and Peter observes him.

"What do you want?" Peter directs to him.

"You keep asking that," Martin says, gaze on him now. "Why am I supposed to believe you care?"

Peter smiles faintly. "I'm waiting for the right answer."

"And what's the right answer?" Martin retorts without missing a beat.

"I'll know it when I hear it."

There's something about standing across from Martin Blackwood, someone who has always been so desperate for someone, anyone, to love him, that is the perfect shining beacon on the faraway hill that Peter has always needed. Even a broken Martin still _wants_ , no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise. Even a broken Martin still aches.

Martin's hands are restless. "It takes time to get used to being back," Peter advises. "You'll feel more yourself in time."

"Where was I?" Martin asks, less of a demand now.

"The Lonely," Peter says, and offers a little smile. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Martin is silent for a moment, then says, "It is."

Peter feels something inexplicable in that moment, then moves towards a stock-still Martin. He strokes Martin's cheek with his hand, watching his eyes fall closed. "What are you thinking about?" Peter asks quietly.

"You." It's too quick an answer to not be the truth. Then: "Don't hurt me."

Peter gently touches the back of Martin's neck. "I would never hurt you, Martin."

Martin's voice catches. "Peter."

"The past is the past," Peter explains. "Aren't things better now?"

Martin _aches._ The beacon, the distance between what they both are, is too strong for Peter to resist, and he presses his mouth to Martin's, earning a relieved and eager shudder. They kiss again and again, and Martin kisses along Peter's neck, firm, desperate, as they shed their clothes and fumble to the bed.

Peter fucks him so hard he cries as he comes. Once he's done, he ignores Martin's voice as he moves away, as he dresses, as he leaves and locks the door.

His heart burns. It's wonderful.

He will forever have that light in the faraway window, a mere corridor away, desperate to be needed, to be fucked, to be broken.

* * *

Martin has lost all sense of time. About every two days – based on sunlight alone – Peter pulls him into the Lonely and leaves him there, and all he can do is softly count the waves to himself and silently say hello to the breeze. Every time he comes back, his body feels alien, every appendage new and strange, clothes grating against his skin.

Every time he comes back, he hates the rising sensation that something is wrong. Nothing is wrong. He should be free. In the Lonely, he's free.

Peter arrives in his room, and Martin braces himself for another trip into the Lonely, but someone enters the room behind Peter. Someone he recognizes. "Hello," Martin says slowly.

"Martin, this is Conrad," Peter says, amiably enough. "I'm sure you remember him. He'll be spending the night with you tonight."

Martin stares. "Sorry, what?" he tries.

"Ah, well," Peter says, mildly apologetic, "you'll have to learn that I'm a bit too fond of gambling. So. I really did try, you know, I wanted that black book quite badly."

"Good luck getting it," Conrad says casually.

"I've never been terribly lucky," Peter supposes.

" _What_?" Martin repeats, fingers tensing into fists. "Peter, this isn't funny."

"No one's joking," Peter clarifies. "I'll see you in the morning, Martin. We'll take a trip home."

"Peter." Martin knows he could burst into tears on the spot if he didn't have some refuge in the scraps of the Lonely left in his heart. "Please."

"My word is my bond," Peter points out, eyebrows raised. "Do you expect me to go back on my ante?"

"He won't," Conrad advises.

Martin takes a shaky breath. "You married me," he tries.

Peter looks so contented in that moment. "Yes," he says. "You're a Lukas now." He smiles a bit more. "You'll understand in the morning. Now. Do enjoy yourself, Conrad."

"I'd better," Conrad returned. "If you lied about this one – "

"Oh, no, he's more than fine," Peter assures him.

Martin presses his fingers into his eyes, trying to think, trying to breathe, and finally he hears the door shut and feels Conrad's fingers move into his clothes and pull him to his feet. "Well," Conrad says mildly, "shall we? I'd rather not waste time."

Conrad fucks him from behind, so hard that Martin has to twist his head to keep from hitting the headboard as harshly as the man seems to want. His fingernails are digging into Martin's hips, too long, and Martin can't handle it. He breaks. He cries. Conrad doesn't care. No one cares.

Conrad fucks him three times that night and makes Martin suck him off once. By the end, Martin's cried himself out even with the few outbursts of tears, and all he wants to do is scream. Conrad pulls his clothes back on and leaves, and Martin buries his face into the pillow and screams as loud as he can. He wants to cry, but nothing happens, just a shudder or two and the harsh reality.

Then that reality bends, and he breaks through into the Lonely.

Martin doesn't know how long he sits in the soft and gentle sensations of home, home, home, before he feels Peter there.

"Wonderful," Peter says, as soft as the breeze that passes by them. "Come, Martin, it's time to go."

"No." Martin doesn't move.

"Martin." Peter breathes out slowly. "I need you to come with me."

"You gave me to him." It's an accusation, but he's not sure he's angry. It's just a fact.

"We are what we are," Peter says after a pause, "and you are what you are."

"And what am I?" Martin asks flatly.

Peter's tone is of mild satisfaction. "Mine."

What good is dreaming of a time before the chrysalis? "A Lukas."

"Yes, Martin." Peter's voice has gone almost gentle. "Let's go."

"Yes," Martin whispers, and they're right next to each other as they reappear in his room. He flings his arms around Peter and holds him tight whether he likes it or not for a moment; Peter resists and pulls him into a firm, possessive kiss that shoots fierce bolts of arousal through Martin's waking physical body.

Peter holds him down as they fuck, and Martin rams his eyes shut.

He lets go. It's the only way to win. And one day he will win.


End file.
